


Ashes to Ashes

by keraunoscopia



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, happyish ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:20:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keraunoscopia/pseuds/keraunoscopia
Summary: It had been his only thought at the time. That same place that had born black ashes once a year since childhood, dusty grey maring his pale skin. How ironic would it be? Ash to remember the death of Christ. Ash to prepare for holy death."Remember, man, that dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return."





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> This is angsty. Someone prompted a "Sonny dealing with being held at gun point" in reference to a particular episode, but I couldn't really make it work the way I wanted. There's no particular timeline here, its not canon compliant. Oh well.

He should have been scared. A tiny, logical voice echoed in the back of his mind, remind him. He had stood there, barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead, cool metal searing against his skin. _Ash Wednesday._ It had been his only thought at the time. That same place that had born black ashes once a year since childhood, dusty grey maring his pale skin. How ironic would it be? Ash to remember the death of Christ. Ash to prepare for holy death. _"Remember, man, that dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return."_ How ironic would it be, for that to be the entry point that blew his brains off? 

He should have been scared. His body trembled, eyes trained on the hand in front of him, the man in front of him. He could see the muscles underneath skin, twitching against the trigger. A split second. He wondered if he’d be able to see it coming, would be able to watch the trigger squeeze, the echoing, deafening sound of a gunshot before death took him. Had he sinned since his last confession? It wasn’t fear rippling under his skin, not anxiety, not worry. It was adrenaline, coursing through his veins, flooding his senses, whittling his peripherals down to nothing but the hot cool burn against his flesh. 

He didn’t jump, barely blinked at the gunshot ringing in his ears. No pain, no sear, just hot, thick droplets against his skin. Maybe he should have relaxed then, with the realization that the man in front of him, holding him at gunpoint had been shot dead by Olivia. Maybe the tension should have melted out of his shoulders, and his stomach and his hands. Maybe he should have felt relieved. 

He definitely should have felt relieved, but it wasn’t disappointment either. He didn’t want to die, hadn’t been praying for the lord to take him. Maybe it was submission, to God’s will. Or fate, but that didn’t feel right either. It churned in his gut, deep and uncomfortable and unidentifiable. 

Hospital for post-exposure prophylaxis, the penny copper taste still scalded into his tongue. Station to give his statement, blood crusting in his hair, shirt stains darkening from red to brown. Home to finally clean up. To solitude. To silence. He felt like he was moving through molasses, and he watched the sidewalk in front of him, dress shoes moving in and out of the frame, passing over each crack. Not superstition, but just incase. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket, chafing against his thigh with each step. It had to be him, Amanda had said goodbye at the station, Olivia wouldn’t call, Fin never did. He ignored it, and reached for the door to his building. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest, but it felt far away, like someone screaming out for him underwater, lost in the waves. 

Steps instead of the elevator, twelve floors to his apartment, he counted. 

It was a Wednesday. The thought tugged at the corners of his mouth, pulling back into an almost smile. Some ethereal sign from the heavens? Or a mere coincidence. He wasn’t sure anymore. His phone vibrated against his thigh again. 

Rafael. 

Like the angel. _One of seven who stand before the lord._ Sonny paused, his hand resting on the brass doorknob into his apartment. He lifted his free hand, letting his index finger trace the sign of the cross on his forehead, where the cold press of metal had rested against his skin only hours ago. There wasn’t a mark, he had checked in the mirror in the station when he had washed the dried blood from his cheeks, but he could feel it there, still pressed against his skin. 

When he finally sinks into the clean cotton sheets, face tucked into pillows, eyes fluttering shut, he doesn’t see the gun, doesn’t see the man standing in front of him, he just sees white, pearly opalescence.

The next few days are grey. The sun is shining, the sky clear, unclouded, he can feel the heat of golden rays against the back of his neck, but when he looks around, everything is muted, like he’s looking through sunglasses he can’t take off. Olivia gives him time off, not because he wants it but because she insists that he needs it, and he wants to tell her no, he does tell her no, but he doesn’t really have a say anyway. 

The phone in his pocket, and on his dresser, and stuffed in the cushions of the couch feels like it’s vibrating incessantly, amplifying, louder. He swallows hard and turns it off again. He knows it’s not fair, not to Rafael who only wants to check in on him, make sure he’s okay. But he’s fine, he’s alive, not a scratch on his skin to show for the whole ordeal. And he wasn’t scared. 

He glances over at the kitchen counter, watches his cell phone skitter against the granite in familiar rhythm. Sonny frowns, he just turned it off, he know he did. It’s half past seven when he checks his watch. It’s enough time to reach the train if he runs, enough time to reach the train that’ll take him to the Staten Island Ferry that’ll take him home. He doesn’t bother pausing to make the decision, just jams his wallet and his keys in his pocket and bolts out the door. 

His hip hits the door frame of the stairway but he doesn’t feel the stinging pain, doesn’t feel the bruise already forming, blue and purple splotches rising on his skin. He doesn’t feel the burn of his lungs as they struggle to suck in air as he takes the stairs three at a time, long legs stretching forward, caught in perpetual motion like the pedals of a bike down a steep hill. 

His feet don’t stop moving until he hits the turnstyle, but when he slides his metrocard in one smooth swipe, his hip hits an obstacle that won’t give way. His heart is thumping an uneven rhythm in his chest, and his hand shakes as he swipes again, slower this time. He presses his bruised hip against the bar again. No give. 

Sonny pauses, just for a moment, eyes catching transit authority, and then he swings his long legs over the turnstyle, ears echoing like a drumbeat he can’t quite pin down. They don’t notice or don’t care, and he flies down a second set of stairs, and he can hear the thrumming rattle of a train approaching, can feel the ground vibrating under his feet, and around him, above him. 

He doesn’t feel his feet moving forward, his toes curling over the edge of the platform, leaning in just a little too close. The rumbling grows louder, wind picks up in a rush and he can see the train hurtling towards him. He let’s his eyes flutter closed, can feel the air whip sediment against his skin _so close._ Everything goes so still, he can feel the sharp sting of cool metal against his forehead.

And then a hand is curling in the loose fabric of his shirt, yanking him backwards, and he tumbles to the ground as the world catches up to him in a rush of blaring sound and color. He can feel it again. That unnamed sensation churning in the pit of his stomach that he hasn’t felt since he was looking down the barrel of a loaded gun, aimed at his forehead. Adrenaline washes over him like a hot wave, skin prickling. 

He shrugs off the concerned crowd that gathers, just heads back up the stairs because for the life of him, he can’t remember why he even wanted to go to Staten Island in the first place. 

A week later he finally returns to work, but his head still feels like there’s a filter around it, sheer curtains over his gaze, a barrier he can’t quite get within his grasp. He sits at his desk, pen drumming a discordant staccato beat, and his gaze zeros in on the clock hanging over Olivia’s doorway. The precinct is busy, the usual hum and drum, the chatter, the perps shouting from lock up but all he can hear is the slow _tick, tick, tick,_ of each second staggering forward. 

A hand rests heavy on his shoulder, and Sonny jumps, startled out of his chair. 

“Easy, killer,” Rafael’s voice is sickeningly sweet in Sonny’s ears. For a moment he thinks he can taste the words on his tongue. “Are you okay?” Rafael’s soft smile curls into a frown, brows pulling with concern. 

“I’m fine, just ready to get out of here,” Sonny glances back up at the clock, his shift ends in twenty three minutes and every muscle in his body is aching, screaming, telling him to run. Rafael relents, either because he actually has work to do, or because he doesn’t know what to say. Sonny suspects it's a mix of both because Rafael has been walking on eggshells around him for the past few days, the space between them no longer a safe haven.

He can see his phone, sitting on his desk, screen black and unmoving, but at the same time he swears he can feel the erratic vibrations of a phone call against his thigh. He brushes a hand against his pocket, lets his fingertips search each crease and fold, but nothing. 

When he gets home, he counts the steps. And the landings. And the floors, he hits twelve and keeps going. Ten more to the roof. His knees strain with each shift, thighs throb but he doesn’t notice, just lets a hand fall to the green and yellow splotched skin on his hip, pressing down with his thumb. He doesn’t pause to consider that the door might be locked, that he might reach the 26th floor and find nowhere left to go, but its not, and he pushes through into the frigid night air. 

He shrugs out of his jacket, gooseflesh prickling on his skin as soon as the winter wind hits him, and he drops it. From the rooftop, he can see the whole city, bright lights and dark patches, the streaks of red and white car lights, the glow of neon signs. He takes a step closer to the edge, and then another. The wind whips an icy assault on his skin, lips fading from petal pink to powder blue as he climbs up on the railing. His vision narrows, or broadens, he’s not sure which, just that all of a sudden he feels like he can really _see._

He’s not sure how long he stands up their, his body trembling in the cold, swaying like the last of autumn leaves still clinging to tree branches. Maybe time stopped moving, because he can’t feel the blue of his lips, the numbness in his fingertips creeping up his arms. But this is it, that feeling he’s been searching for, liminality. He’s standing on the precipice, one quick nudge either way will send him tumbling into finality and he’s not sure which way to go. 

“Sonny,” the strangled cry pulls him out of his narrow focus. He knows that voice, would know it anywhere, even if the wind threatens to carry it away. He turns his head, and there he is Rafael, scarf pulled tightly around his neck, collar turned up against the cold. Sonny smiles, bright and beaming, powder blue lips up to sapphire eyes. 

A flash of something crosses Rafael’s face. Sonny doesn’t recognize it. “Sonny what are you doing, get down from there,” Rafael tries again, but his voice doesn’t hold any of the authority it usually does, cracked and broken. 

“Don’t you get it?” Sonny asks, eyes flashing as he turns back to look over the edge, swaying forward ever so slightly. Rafael gasps sharply. 

“Please, please don’t jump.” Sonny’s never heard that sort of pleading before, not from Rafael, but his eyes just keep searching the streets below. “Think of your sisters, your niece, your parents, Sonny.”

Sonny just beams, his skin feels hot, like sweat is pooling at the back of his neck, at his temples. “I don’t want to die, Rafael,” he responds, and his chest is pounding so hard he’s not sure how his rib cage is still keeping it contained. “I won’t die,” he adds with such conviction that Rafael takes a step back, brows knitting together. “Rafael, I feel invincible.” The adrenaline is surging through his veins, drowning out the cold and the doubt. 

He’s not quite sure the moment his foot slips, but everything feels like slow motion, dress shoe against a frozen railing, weightlessness, he looks up at the dark night sky and wonders just how many stars there are, hidden by the lights of the city. 

And then he feels Rafael’s hands gripping at his arm, nails digging into his flesh, and they collapse on the rooftop, a crumpled heap of heaving sobs and Sonny’s not sure at first if he’s the one crying. But Rafael’s hands twist in the fabric of his shirt, holding the detective down on top of him. 

“Please, Sonny,” Rafael chokes out between gasps for air and strangled cries, “please, I can’t lose you.” 

Sonny reaches up, touches the spot on his forehead, right between his brows, where the barrel of a gun had come to rest. He hadn’t been scared then, but now he feels nothing but sheer terror flooding every crack and crevice in his mind. _Rafael._ A sob bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him, and he reaches forward, wrapping long delicate fingers around the back of Rafael’s neck, and presses his forehead against his. Rafael’s skin feels warm against the chill settled into his flesh, and he blinks as tiny dew drop tears fall from long lashes to Rafael’s cheeks. He inhales deeply, Rafael’s hot breath against his lips, peppermint and coffee. “You won’t.” He’s not sure where the conviction comes from, but he can feel it in his bones, “I promise.”


End file.
